POWER TO THE KING
by Very.Now.Now
Summary: It's been six years since the war against Voldemort. Ron has since been living with his parents and wants to get a life of his own. He finds a job at Ollivander's Wand Shop as an assistant and finds that not all things are as they seem... Please review!
1. Rise and Shine

POWER TO THE KING

Chapter 1- Rise and shine

It was a beautiful, sunny day. An open window welcomed a warm breeze into the room and the sound of birds chirping happily was audible from the bed where there lay a peacefully sleeping Ronald Weasley… well, at least that was what Ron was hoping to wake up to. The loud boom of thunder and the constant patter of rain slapping onto his window indicated otherwise. He tried turning over to go back to sleep, but after ten minutes of pointless staring at a Victor Krum poster turned dart board, he decided he might as well get up. He groaned at nothing in particular as he lifted himself out of bed. He shot another disgusted look at the window of his bedroom before getting dressed, muttering to himself about the "Bloody weather".

He took a good long look at himself in the mirror. He didn't look that bad, considering he had only slept three hours last night. He kept getting dreams about Hermione, which was quite odd because they hadn't spoken since they broke up five years ago. He always got the same dream. She was at an altar and Ron was standing where the best man should be…. So she was getting married, and he was the best man. Who was the groom, then? He looked at her. She was beautiful. Her hair was down and full of silk, chocolate curls and just above her ear, there was an elegant white flower to match her wedding dress. He found himself secretly wishing he could be the one she would be reciting her vows to.

"You look radiant, my love." There was that cold voice again. He was sure he had heard it somewhere before…who was she going to marry? He would try turning around to see who it was behind him, but every time, he woke up before he had the chance to see his face. He would spend hours trying to get back to sleep. Why was he dreaming about Hermione so much? Did he still love her? He doubted it. It had been so long since they had talked that he felt like he barely even remembered her. And yet, whenever he closed his eyes, there she was, all dressed in white, just beaming at him, looking happier than she had ever been…

A knock on his door quickly pulled Ron back to reality. He looked over to the door, where his mother was cautiously turning the doorknob, thinking he was still asleep. She then snuck her head between the door and the wall to find her youngest son not only out of bed, but also dressed.

"Goodness, Ronald! Up already?" she asked pleasantly. "It's only just past nine, dear! It's a mighty good thing I made breakfast early this morning! It's downstairs, when you're ready, Love." She smiled at him and retreated into the hallway, gently closing the door behind her. Ron watched the door for a moment, half expecting his mother to come in again. He smiled to himself thinking about how much she had put up with when he was growing up. Now he was twenty-three and she still had to put up with him. He was the only Weasley left at the Burrow, other than his father, of course. 

The last one to leave had been Ginny, when she went off to marry Harry. That was last September. Wow. It had already been a year and a half. Why had he stayed at his parents house so long? When he thought about it hard enough, he supposed it was because he just wasn't meant to have an exciting life. He was going to be one of those old men who had been part of many spectacular events, but had never done anything beneficial to the wizarding world. He merely attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the best school in the country; he was part of the Gryffindor quidditch team, without ever receiving any honourable mention; he _helped _Harry Potter defeat the Dark Lord. Was he doomed to being the wallflower of wizarding history? That's when it hit him. He was watching his life go by and if he didn't act soon, it would leave him behind to wonder where it all went. That was it. He was going to find himself a job.

Determined to turn his life (well, what had become his life) around, Ronald Weasley walked to the door and, with a certain air of importance, marched down the stairs and strode into the kitchen. He found his mother talking to his father, hiding behind today's Daily Prophet. He didn't pay much attention to the conversation, something about the weather, he figured. He took a seat in his usual spot and felt lost among the empty chairs. The breakfast table presented a variety of eggs, bacon, toast, beans, fruit; the usual. 

Ron glanced up at his mother and watched her for a while. The years had been kind, but she looked tired and time seemed to be taking its toll on her. The woman had been through a lot: she raised a family of seven children, was the designated cook for the Order when they were getting ready to fight Voldemort, and then she participated in the war between good versus evil, she even rid the world of Bellatrix Lestrange, the Dark Lord's most faithful servant, by far. Now _she_ had had a life! He looked at her hair, now mostly grey and up in the messy bun she had kept it in for as long as Ron could remember. Her face was the same, yet her skin looked slightly paler. She no longer had the rosy cheeks that once illuminated her smile. Now, it was a tired, almost weak, smile. Her eyes, narrowed and wrinkled, looked slightly duller, as if they had lost their colour over time. Yet, through all that, she kept that beauty about her. He loved the way her face was gently caressed by the few wiry hairs that always managed to escape from their restraint. He watched her look at his father in that special way that she always had and hoped that someday, he'd be able to sit at his own kitchen table in the morning, reading the paper as his own wife looked at him in the same way that his mother had been looking at her husband for almost half a decade. _That's real magic_, he thought. Oh, speaking of which, he needed to tell his parents about his morning epiphany. Well, that could wait, couldn't it?

"Ron! What are your plans for today, Son?" 

Apparently not.

"Er, I was actually thinking of, er, going to Diagon Alley today to see if there might be a job I could find. I thought it was about time I got my own--" His sentence was cut short by the sound of Molly Weasley choking over her tea. Arthur immediately put down the Prophet to gently pat on his wife's back until the sputtering ceased. 

"Ron, dear, you're not serious about leaving, are you?" asked a raspy-voiced Mrs. Weasley. Embarrassed, Ron felt his face turn scarlet as he tried to explain to his mother why he was leaving.

"I'm twenty three, Mum! Did you think I was going to stay with you forever? Don't you think it's about time I started my own life? I'm the last one left, and I'm not even the youngest of the family! My _little sister_ has been married and has been living in her own house for nearly two years now." His mother stayed silent, but he could see her eyes fogging up. He knew this was going to be difficult… "I'll visit loads, I promise." He looked to his father for help. He got the hint.

"Molly, I think what our son is trying to tell us is that he--"

"Don't you patronize me, Arthur Weasley! I know full well that my son is trying to tell me that he wants to start a life of his own, that he's sick of living with his mother, even after everything I did for him…" 

"Mum, that's not it! I just, I want to do something important with my life, preferably _before_ I turn eighty-two."

"Well that leaves you almost fifty years, Darling, what's your rush?" She teased, hoping she could change the atmosphere, which was getting tenser and tenser by the minute. She knew full well what he meant by wanting to go off on his own. It was just that she had lost so many of her children, she didn't want to let go of her Ron. She couldn't! However, a sympathetic glace from her husband let her know that he, too, deserved a chance at a life of his own. She had known deep down, that this day would come. She had just been hoping that it would be postponed for another year or two. The house was already so empty.

"If you must… then, I suppose..." It was barely a whisper, but it was enough for Ron. He automatically jumped from his seat and reached over the table to kiss his mother on the cheek, knowing how hard it was for her to let him go, after having seen each of his six siblings leave the Burrow and having himself felt the pain of knowing that things would never again be the same.


	2. Dream Job

PTTK-Ch.2

A/N: Hey, sorry, I completely forgot to do this in the first chapter, but I do not own anything in this story other than the two OFCs I've made up (and they're coming in really soon). Enjoy!

Chapter 2 – Dream job … right!

The next morning, Ron woke up quite early. For some reason, his room was bathed in an atrociously bright light. _What the…?_ He opened his left eye just a crack and looked out towards the window and saw that the sun was out today. He smiled, despite himself. Today was a new beginning, and even the sun seemed to agree.

He quickly got dressed and went to open the door, but something caught his foot and he tripped and fell right on his face. He regained his composure to turn and glare at the object that had tripped him. It was the strap from his travel bag. Oh yeah, he was moving today. He looked around his room and remembered that he had spent most of the night before packing everything, except what was in his travel bag, into his old trunk. Wow, that thing was old. He had looked through some of the things he had kept in it over the years: a few pictures of himself and Harry, a picture of his whole family in Egypt… and a picture of himself and Hermione. He had briefly wondered how she was doing before putting the pictures into a box and placing it gently in his trunk. He'd be taking those with him. He often missed the days when the three of them did everything together and felt like they weren't so far away when he looked at their pictures. They reminded him that he hadn't just been dreaming.

He moved his bag onto his bed so that he wouldn't trip on it again, because he probably would. _Then_, he reached for the door and headed downstairs. _Mum has really outdone herself this morning_;he thought when he reached the dining room. Was she trying to use food to bribe him into staying home? Because if she was, he had to admit, it was working. He had never seen such a big breakfast since the morning after Ginny's wedding. The couple had gotten married at the Burrow and had agreed to wait until the next morning before going off on their honeymoon. Mrs. Weasley had thought of _**everything**_. Anything you could possibly think of eating for breakfast was there. Now, looking at the stomach/food ratio, it would take a lot longer to clear the table than it had when everyone was still here. Arthur, like his son, looked as discouraged as Molly was proud.

It seemed as though hours had gone by before breakfast was finally finished and Ron was sure he had gained at least a stone simply from clearing his plate. When he finally worked up the will power to get up from his chair, he thanked his mother for making him part of the world's biggest breakfast and slowly went back upstairs to pack the last few items and to digest a bit before using the Floo network to the Leaky Cauldron. He wasn't sure how his stomach would react to being spun and spun and spun around, given its current state. A few hours later, he figured he had put it off long enough. It was time to leave for good. He gathered all his things and made sure they were all securely closed before placing them in the fireplace. He looked back to his parents. His mother had already begun sobbing and his father silently comforted her. He hugged them both and stepped into the fireplace. He didn't know what to say to make them feel better. So he just left it at "The Leaky Cauldron!"

POOF! And he was gone.

He spent several agonizing seconds regretting not having waited a few more hours, or days, before leaving. What was he doing? No! This was no time to doubt himself! New beginning, remember? He could do this, he had to. There was no going back. Before he had time to continue his silent argument with himself, he came into contact with the bumpy floor of the fireplace in the old inn. It was the same as it had looked seven years ago. He looked around. Not many people around today. Oh well, it was open. He walked in and was instantly greeted with the stench of fire whiskey and the old, sweaty bartender. What was his name again? Oh well, he didn't care. All he needed was a room. He paid for his key and lugged his trunk up the stairs to his new home, for the time being. Queasy and out of breath, he sat down on his bed. It stunk of mould and he felt a spring poking him in the butt. _Great, just what I need_, he thought, shifting so that he wouldn't be prodded any longer. He already missed the Burrow. He spent another five minutes taking it all in and felt his stomach sink.

He was on his own.

"Alright now, no panicking, you're nearly twenty-four", he told himself. "This is just temporary until you find a job and have enough money to rent an apartment, or at least to get a nicer room." He decided he could do with a drink. He unpacked a few personal belongings to make the room less foreign to him, and headed back downstairs. He took a seat at the bar and ordered a small glass of fire whiskey. He swallowed it in one gulp and waited until the burning in his throat ceased before ordering another. He was just about to swallow his second drink when he heard the bell in the door jingle. Curiosity overpowered his laziness and he turned his head to see who it was. A young woman, about his age, he supposed, had just walked into the room and was heading upstairs. That's odd, he thought to himself. The only time he had ever seen a woman (without a beard or freakishly long fingernails) rent a room at the Leaky Cauldron was when he met Hermione here to wait for Harry. She was the only girl who could stand the stench, he supposed. Not to mention the creepy, drunk men

He watched the beautiful stranger come back downstairs and sit down at a nearby table. He wondered what her name was, but thought better not to ask. With him, all women ever lead to was trouble. Besides, he didn't leave home to meet girls. He had a job to find. He gulped down his glass of fire whiskey, paid for it along with his previous drink and headed out the door, making sure not to stare at the graceful figure, calmly reading a book, as if she had no idea that she was making his palms sweat. Well, okay, she didn't. She was probably completely unaware of his existence. He sighed to himself before walking out to the back room and tapping the combination of the brick wall to Diagon Alley. The bricks slid and tumbled sideways to reveal an archway and Ron immediately walked through, and then heard the wall reform itself behind him. It's too bad he hadn't waited a bit longer before leaving the small room. If he had, he would have heard a certain young woman asking the bartender who that curious young man with the bright red hair was…

Diagon Alley. Ron observed the small street and felt the familiar clench of his stomach that he had always felt coming here. It always reminded him of back-to-school shopping. He had dreaded back-to-school shopping. He chuckled at himself and then started walking down the little street, peering in at each shop. _No… no…no…and NO I am NOT going to work at Madam Malkin's Robes!_ This was pathetic. How long was this going to take? He needed to start working as soon as possible so that he could start saving up for the next time he needed to pay for his room and—

"Ron? Is tha' you?" The gruff voice behind him was so loud and unexpected that he jumped about two feet off the ground.

"Hagrid?" He barely had time to think before he was scooped up into a giant hug, literally.

"Merlin's beard, Ron, look a how you've grown!" He squeezed Ron a little harder before putting him back down. Ron looked up into his old friend's eyes. He too, like Ron's parents, looked a little older, a little more tired. Nonetheless, he was happy to see him. The last he had heard from him, he was in the mountains somewhere in England with Grawp, trying to help him build a home. Now he was in Diagon Alley and he was chatting pleasantly with Ron. "So wha' brings ye here, Ron?" he asked, beginning to walk beside him.

"Er, well, I came here to look for a job, actually." He felt his ears go red. This was embarrassing. "I've, er, been living with my mum and dad for the last six years, and I thought that this was as good a time as any to go off on my own." He felt Hagrid's eyes on him for a while, but kept staring at the street until he looked away.

Hagrid stayed silent for a while. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. Ronald Weasley, Harry Potter's best friend, best man, and companion had been living with his parents? At twenty-three? Well, he didn't see anything wrong with that, he had just expected something a little more…bold from Ron. _Well, he's gett'n a job now, inne?_ He though. _Better late than never! _After a few more awkward silences, the pair stopped at Ollivander's wand shop.

"You know, Ron," started Hagrid. "I ave some business ter tend to with Mister Ollivander here. You should talk ter im an see if maybe he'd give ye a job, eh?" Ron nodded and they both walked in together. The bells above the door emitted a jingle as they entered, and the man that had been arguing with the shop keeper fell silent. Ron thought he looked peculiar. He was tall and slender and had a neatly parted head of dark brown hair. The young man had been in a heated argument with Ollivander, which was obvious. The stranger's jaw was clenched and his eyes shot daggers at the old clerk. He took a deep breath before saying in a dangerously calm tone, "Thank you for your help, Mister Ollivander, I _will_ be back." Three pairs of eyes watched him walk with a quickened pace through the shop door and disappear into the crowded street.

Ron wondered what all that had been about, but figured it was none of his business. It had always been Harry's job to be nosey, he just kept to himself. He wandered absent-mindedly through the shop as Hagrid spoke with Mr. Ollivander about whatever he was here for, something about a certain wand needing protection. He looked through the glass window and saw the stranger that had just left. He was standing across the street and just staring in at him. Why was he staring at him? Hadn't he ever been told that staring was rude? He felt offended and took refuge behind a shelving unit full of wand boxes. He accidentally pushed one further in the shelf, causing dust to fly up his nose. He sneezed and fell backwards. In doing so, he caused a tall stack of boxes to fall over and lose their wands. Ollivander's attention turned to him and he felt his ears go red again. Hagrid watched Ollivander glare at Ron for a moment before remembering…

"Ron here needs a job, Ollie. D'ye think ye could find some work fer him to do round here? It'd be mighty kind of ye." The old man looked most astounded at this request. He remembered him from somewhere. He knew he was a Weasley, the bright red hair, freckled face, blue eyes and pale complexion gave him away easily. But there was something peculiar about him. What was it again? Ah, yes! He broke his wand in his third year at Hogwarts, the dunderheaded fool. Well, that was ten years ago, surely he couldn't still be that careless about wands, or so one would think. It had taken him all morning to stack those boxes! And in he came not caring to mind where he was walking and in a few seconds, all those hours of work were scattered all over the floor. And now he was asking for a job?

He would have kept complaining to himself but noticed that both Hagrid and the boy were waiting for an answer. This, somehow, irritated him further.

"No, Hagrid, look what he's done to the place! It took me all morning to stack those, you know!" He saw Ron get up and attempt to undo the damage by putting some wands back into boxes. "Don't touch those! You're not putting them into the right boxes! They need to be in their proper boxes! Hagrid, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, but no. I'm already busy as it is, I don't need to add babysitting to my list of things to--" He interrupted himself when he looked back at Ron. He looked crushed. Oh, when had he become such a grumpy old git? And besides, he needed an extra pair of hands; the boy seemed eager to work. He'd simply spend a few evenings teaching him about wand basics, since he was obviously as educated on the subject as a turtle was on flying.

"Oh, very well, you're hired, boy. But don't you think this is child's play! Wand making is one of the most important jobs in the wizarding world. Without the proper wands, many things, great things, would never have happened…" Ron began to roll his eyes as the old man continued on with a speech he had probably rehearsed all his life. He nudged Hagrid to hint to him that it was time to go and he agreed.

"Alright, then Ollie, be seein ye later then."

"Thanks for the job Mr. Ollivander." Ron turned to leave as well but something was holding him back by the collar. He watched as Hagrid left without him and he heard the old man laugh.

"Oh no you don't, you've got work to do, boy, now get to it! You can start by cleaning up the mess you've made…and make sure the wands match up exactly with the boxes! You don't want to upset them!" This was going to be hell. He was stuck in a small, stuffy shop with an old, grumpy, delusional man who thought wands had feelings! He began picking up a wand and a box…

This was going to be a long afternoon.


	3. Bedtime Reflections

PTTK-summary

**A/N – Hey there, sorry it took so long to post this chapter. I've been really busy and barely had time to breathe the last few days. Oh well, I survived! I promise to update as soon as I can! Thanks for reading. Enjoy! ******

Chapter 3- Bedtime Reflections

All was quiet in the small room at the far left of the hallway on the second floor of the Leaky Cauldron Inn. An old trunk lay at the foot of the lumpy bed and on the dresser that sat in front of it rested a few picture frames of groups of people, mostly red-headed, smiling and waving. The window signalled the sunset and the room reflected a warm orange in response to it.

Suddenly, the room door burst open and an exhausted Ron Weasley let himself collapse onto the bed. What a day! That old git had worked him harder than a mule… over _wands_! It had been the longest six hours of his life … and he knew long. He had gotten many detentions with Hogwarts caretaker, Mr. Filch, courtesy of Professor Snape, as always. Ron tried focusing on something else but Ollivander's raspy voice kept ringing in his ears…

"How many times do I have to tell you? Cherry wood wands go in the boxes with the red ribbons! NOT blue!"

"Sorry," mumbled Ron. He made sure to remember: Cherry wood, cherry red. He took a different wand and put it in a box with a green ribbon.

"That wand is _also_ made of cherry wood, Donald!" Ron held his breath and counted to ten before replying in the most polite voice he could manage.

"_Mister_ Ollivander, my name is _Ronald_, not _Donald_, and I would _prefer_ it if you didn't shout so much at my mistakes."

"Don't you start being cheeky, boy; I didn't have to give you a job. Now do you want to work or not?" Ron stared at the floor and barely nodded. "Good. Now, for the last time, the Cherry wood wands go in the boxes with the _red_ ribbons. I don't know why it's taking you so long to understand that, it's not that hard…" Ron then figured it was safe to begin tuning him out, at least until he put another oak wood wand in the dark brown box instead of the auburn one. He spent the remainder of the day managing to put every wand in the wrong box at least twice before finding the right one. Now, here he was, laying on his slab of mould for a mattress, still wondering why the hell he had wanted to leave the Burrow. He reminded himself that he should have done this a while ago and that he had to start somewhere, even if it was in a certain fiery pit of hell called 'Ollivander's Wand Shop'.

He was tired. He slowly got changed and climbed into bed. He fell asleep wondering what Hermione was doing at that very moment…

It had been a long day for someone else in London. Sitting comfortably in her armchair, Hermione Granger gazed out her window overlooking the city. Crookshanks purred happily as she petted him. She wondered for a moment how her parents were doing, if they were still touring Australia. She had spent a good portion of a year trying to find Wendell and Monica Wilkins, with no luck. She remembered how hard it had been to cast the spell. She had spent all that night crying. She felt a small burning in her nose and a tightening in her throat, which indicated that she was about to cry. She quickly thought of something else before any tears escaped.

Ron.

She wondered how he was. What he was doing._ Surely still at his mum's house,_ she thought, but then regretted it. She had had a bad day, but it wasn't fair to take it out on Ron; even if he _was_ a selfish, lazy prick who could only think of himself… Hmm. Hermione gave up trying to read the book that had been patiently been waiting to be explore for the last half hour and got up to make herself a cup of tea, to help her unwind.

She walked into the small kitchen of her flat and put the kettle on. She came back into the living room to a standing Crookshanks. He had been suspicious of her ever since she had left him with her parents. Now, every time she left the room, he was uneasy until she came back, or he would simply follow her to make sure she wouldn't abandon him again. She admired his intelligence and loyalty. He had somehow found his way back home to where she was. She often tried to make sense of how he had managed to cross over the ocean to the UK, unsuccessfully. Crookshanks swished his tail happily and pounced onto a nearby coffee table, looking his mistress straight in the eyes. He liked to do this, for some odd reason Hermione hadn't figured out yet. She had read in a book somewhere that a witch or wizard's familiar would do this to communicate with them, but Crookshanks didn't communicate…he just stared.

"Come on, Shanks, cut it out, that's creepy." She gently shooed him off the table and re-immersed herself in the day's reflections. She had started off on a bad foot, it seemed, with her new employer. She needed some extra money, so she applied for a job as an archivist at the London Public Library for Wizarding Folk.

Mrs. Morella James.

That was the name of the insufferable bookkeeper at the library. Hermione couldn't believe there was actually a man in this world that was willing to spend his life with a wretched old witch like her. She decided that he must be paralyzed or insane, therefore incapable of saving himself from her evil clutches. As soon as Hermione had set foot in the place, the woman was breathing down her neck.

"Granger, is it?" Morella inquired, looking down at Hermione through her spectacles.

"Yes, _Hermione_ Granger, if you don't mind, ma'am." She responded curtly. She felt a little uneasy as Mrs. James proceeded in circling around her, frowning. Hermione felt the woman's cold eyes scan her, head to toe, and felt them freeze at her feet. "Is there something wrong with my shoes, Mrs. James?" She felt terribly self-conscious now.

"Is that what you call those? In that case, yes. You are never to wear those horrid … _shoes_… in this library again or people will think we're hiring the homeless. And we _certainly_ don't want that, Granger." Hermione was at a loss for words. She had spent a great deal of money on those shoes! She admitted they weren't the fanciest pair of shoes ever made, but they were unbelievably comfortable. It was the deciding factor when she had bought them. She had assumed they would be appropriate for work at the library since they were conservative and comfortable. What else was she supposed to wear?

"From now on, you are to wear no other shoes but black heels," announced Mrs. James, her icy eyes daring her new recruit to protest, "and your hair must be kept in a tight bun at all times, no exceptions." Hermione received a last warning glare and nodded, visibly frustrated with the situation. She desperately wanted to punch that old hag.

"Is that all, ma'am?" She asked politely.

"No." When was this going to end? Any more and she was going to tell her to change her eye color! "As of now, you will also be wearing these." Morella shoved the ugliest pair of glasses Hermione had ever seen into her hands. Well, she had been close. She thought of mentioning to her superior that her vision was 20/20 and that she didn't need glasses, but found it better to stay quiet. She watched her employer walk away as she carelessly added: "That will be all, Granger. You'll find a pile of books waiting to be put back on the shelves in the back table." Hermione gritted her teeth as she made her way to the back of the library where a mountain of open books lay scattered across the table. This vexed her further and she muttered to herself as she piled them up into a neater pile, occasionally looking over her shoulder to make sure no one overheard.

Who did she think she was, anyway? What right did she think she had to criticise her appearance like that, when she wasn't much to look at herself? Mrs. Morella James was a tall, skinny woman who looked like she had been dead for ages, before resurrecting. Her skin was stretched over her high cheekbones, making her look much like a skeleton. To top it all off, she was about as tall as the bookshelves, which made Hermione think of a twig. One that she'd very much like to snap, she thought with a devilish grin. Her eyes, a piercing blue, seemed to invade the privacy of Hermione's thoughts; her deepest fears and secrets. She hated those eyes along with their owner. She eventually remembered that she had been hired to put books back on their shelves, not to start a hate club against Mrs. James, even though that rotting corpse deserved it. She sighed deeply before pulling her hair into a painfully tight bun and put on the glasses that she had been handed.

She noticed immediately that these were no ordinary glasses; no, not because they were uglier than who they came from, but because they had quite the magical property to them. The book she had in her hand began to glow a soft blue and she figured that somewhere in the library, there would be an empty space on a shelf that would be glowing the same colour. Her logic proved her right when she found, three rows down, the glowing space between two books. She admitted that this was helpful in putting many books back in their individual spots, but did the glasses have to be so chunky? She felt like an old man. _Oh well_, she thought, _at least it will speed things up a bit. With these, I should have that pile put away in no time…_

Or not.

When she had placed the last few books in their respective shelves, she went back to the table to find a bigger, messier pile of books waiting for her. Hermione shot a glare at the bookkeeper calmly reading a book at the front desk, hopefully on skin rejuvenation, and wanted to curse her skinny little arse off…

Hermione decided she had enough of getting angry all over again over the day's events. She wouldn't give Morella that satisfaction. She firmly got up and stalked off into her room and went to bed, deciding that she was going to have a good night's sleep; and God forbid she has a dream about that old goose!


	4. The Big Fat Messy Book Monster

PTTK-summary

**A/N: Once again, a thousand apologies for the delay, it's a busy ****time for me. I'm not promising to update very soon, I have to figure out what exactly is going to happen in the next chapter; I don't want things to move too fast. Ah well, enjoy chapter four! **

Chapter 4 – The Big Fat Messy Book Monster

Hermione woke the next morning to find a big pair of yellow eyes staring back at her, and groaned. When was Crookshanks going to grow out of this staring phase? She hoped it would be soon. She pushed the ginger cat off her chest and got out of bed. She spent ten minutes getting dressed, and then another twenty fighting with her hair to get it in a stupid bun. She was aware of the fact that she also needed high-heels; she'd get a pair on the way to work. There were tons of shops near the library; one of them was bound to sell shoes. Hermione reached out for the now lovely glasses that had once been big, chunky and the ugliest shade of brown she had ever seen. She had spent an hour transfiguring them, after waking up at two in the morning. The spectacles now bore blue frames; no longer thick and heavy, but simple and sophisticated. Hermione put them on, quite anxious to see the look on Morella's face when she'd walk into the library. If she was going to have to follow such stupid rules, she was going to follow them _her_ way. She had a quick breakfast and took care of Crookshanks before petting him on the head and darting out the door; she had to hurry up if she was going to buy a pair of shoes on the way to work.

After practically speeding through the isles in the shop, Hermione finally found a decent pair of shoes to wear. She tried them on. They hurt her feet, but figured she could fix that with a simple charm during lunch break. She paid for her shoes, almost throwing her money at the poor clerk and bolting out the door leaving a poor old man with her change. Reading his mind, Hermione shouted over her shoulder, "It's okay, keep the chaaaange!" She was running now and didn't stop until she got to the library, in a total mess from the wind. The Corpse was not impressed.

"Granger, I thought we talked about your hair – and WHAT are you wearing on your face??" Morella, visibly horrified, pointed to Hermione's glasses. Good. This was just the kind of reaction she was hoping for.

_Take that, you old bat._

"Like them?" Hermione asked innocently. Morella glared.

"Like them! I – I – I – just get out of my face, Granger!" Hag-face turned and walked away, apparently mourning the loss of her ugly glasses. Hermione watched her, beaming. She then went to the ever-present pile of books at the back table, with the echo of her high heels clicking on the floor following close by. Her feet were already hurting; she made a mental note to fix that as soon as possible.

She must have spent just about all day picking up books for the back table's occupant. Every time she put away the pile of books, there was always another one waiting for her, and there never seemed to be any sign of someone actually reading them. Hermione never really spent time looking at the books; they were old and thick and, quite frankly, they smelled awful. She wondered who in the world would want to read these. She had always considered herself open-minded to books appearances – like the good old muggle saying: "Don't judge a book by its cover" – but these books seemed to be an exception. There was something particular about them. She was just about to take a peek inside the top volume when…

"Granger! … GRANGER!" God, she hated that shrill voice. She hated the way she pronounced her last name. Granger… she made it sound like she was an object. Hermione felt her blood bubbling. She wasn't usually this hateful towards people, but Morella James was quite a different story, thank you. She continued grumbling to herself as she put her pile of stinky books back on the table and approached the source of the sound of a drowning cat whose whiskers were being pulled one by one. She was then greeted by the face that could have been carved by demons; lucky for her this was a good day. Morella signalled her to come into her office. Hermione obeyed, curious to see what she was going to nag her for this time. She wondered, while she made her way up the stairs to the restricted section, how come Hog-face was allowed to screech her name out but when she so even as stubbed her toe on something, she was reprimanded for disturbing the "silent atmosphere". Then again, it _was_ Morella she was thinking about here….

_Figures_

They reached the top of the stairs and Hermione paused to take in the great view of the library from the very highest level of the building. She saw rows upon rows of books and knew now why she stayed here, even with the Hairy Mole always picking on her. This was her world. Ah yes! Such a great blessing literature was… is… will always be! Hermione shot another loving glance towards this empire of written masterpieces (yes, even the stinky ones) before following Morella through a frosted door that read _Mrs. M. James_ and into a small room barely big enough for both women.

The room would have been quite ordinary and somewhat pleasant, had it not been for the fact that the furniture in the room reminded Hermione of a child that had long outgrown a pair of trousers and refused to throw them out, regardless of the tearing seams. Hermione awkwardly squeezed in between the front of the desk and the chair. When she finally sat down in front of her employer, she already felt her knees beginning to bruise from bumping them so many times on the desk. Nonetheless, she rested her folded hands in her lap as she waited for the old woman to speak up. About a minute later, she did.

"There has been a rumour going around that someone has been sneaking about town for information on something very important…information that only _we_ have." Hermione raised an eyebrow. _She had better not start accusing me of anything or else…_ "We have no way of knowing just yet what it is this …person…is looking for, but I was informed that the information could be lethal if it got into the wrong hands. Therefore, I was instructed to keep a close eye on each of my employees just in case they were in on it" Hermione rolled her eyes. "And since you're my only employee, Granger, I'll be keeping a very close eye on you…" She ended her sentence and thought fit to stare at Hermione for a moment, a meagre attempt at a dramatic pause perhaps, before waving her hand at her, as if lazily shooing a fly. "Go now. I have things to do."

Hermione glared at Morella, infuriated that not only had she made her walk all the way up here just for _that_, she would even suggest that she would be "in" on such a scandal. She got up and marched out of Morella's office, which did not take long at all, given the size of the room, and made a point to slam the door behind her. She glided down the stairs with ease, fuming at the thought of what Morella had hinted. The nerve of this woman! As if she, Hermione Granger, would do such a thing! Use information, important information; _restricted _information! She stopped and smiled to herself for a bit quiltly. Well, she had done it before, but those days were long gone! And besides, she had done it for the right reasons. She was sure that whoever this was was nothing like her!

It took her some time to calm down, but just when she did, she came to that stupid back table that was piled high with twice as many books as there had ever been. _What is wrong with this person!_ She thought. _Even __**I**__ don't read this much!_ This was going to end. It was bad enough, having to come to work for that stupid, lazy, no-good, old hag; she didn't need a big, fat, messy book monster to make things worse for her. That was it! She decided that she was going to pick up those books for the last time and then she was going to wait for the book monster to come back to its table with more books and then she would tear its head off!

Good thing for everyone, it took all day for Hermione to put those books away and by the time she came back to the table, there was another pile, just as big, waiting for her once more. She had missed him. And on top of that, her feet were hurting.

_Damn it_

Another week went by like this. Monster kept pestering her with stinky books and Salmonella Morella kept a close eye on her, just like she said she would. On the 17th day of this routine, Hermione finally sat down at the table where there lay a pile of books, as usual, and she hesitantly began examining the books around her.

"Monster, I don't know how many books we have in this library, but with the number I've put away, and with each one being different, never taken out twice, you must have read every book this library owns, or at least every stinky one, and that's saying something." Hermione wasn't quite sure why she was talking as if the person, or monster that had been using this table for the past month, was right there listening to her. She was so tired, she didn't even care. Her fingers gracefully ran along the spines of all the volumes wondering if she should take a look at what lay inside. She was just about to open the book, but something held her back. She wasn't sure why, but she suddenly felt uneasy. She then heard the echo of footsteps bounce off emanating from the granite floor and bouncing off the marble walls, coming her way.

_The Book Monster!_

She felt so childish, but she couldn't help it. She quickly hid behind the nearest bookshelf and took a few books out to make an improvised peephole. She watched as a tall figure sat at the very chair she had been sitting at just moments ago. After several minutes of heavy scrutinizing from the other side of the bookshelf, Hermione thought it was safe to claim that whoever was sitting at that table was a male. She wondered how old he was. From where she was, she couldn't tell. Surely quite old, however, if he's only been reading the decomposing books, she thought. Eventually, she came to realize that she had spent over half an hour staring at this person, whoever he was. Her feet still hurt, and her knees kept throbbing from sitting on them this whole time. She thought it would be best to simply get up, walk away silently and then come out from a different row as if she were somewhere else the whole time. And that's what she did, except, she hadn't expected her legs to be completely asleep. Therefore, one could imagine her surprise, when she attempted to walk, to find that the only thing she could do was topple over like a tree, followed by a loud thud, a plaintive "Owww" and yet another bruise to add to her growing collection.

Hermione then heard footsteps and doubted they would be anyone else's but Mrs. James, coming to reprimand her for her school-girlish and clumsy behaviour. Contrary to her beliefs, it was not Morella that helped her to her feet, but a great big pair of strong arms. When Hermione looked up to see who these arms belonged to, she found the most beautiful pair of brown eyes staring back at her. Not the creepy Crookshanks way of staring though, no, this was a kind, worried stare, one that Hermione wished she got more often…

"Are you alright, Miss?" asked the man.

_I am now!_

"Oh, yes, I'm just fine thank you… and how are you?" Hermione quickly pressed her lips in embarrassment.

"I'm fine as well. I don't think we've ever met. My name is Daric." He held out his hand so that Hermione could shake it. She accepted it gladly. "Might I have the pleasure of knowing yours?"

"Err – Hermione" She said simply. "But I really must be going now, you see, I have to clean up this huge pile of books." She wanted to stop it at that, but for some reason, her mouth just wouldn't shut. "…the Big Fat Messy Book Monster, I call him because he never picks up after himself, even after all this time he's been here, you' think he knows how things are run around here, wouldn't you?"

Daric looked at her, smiled and then laughed, showing off a beautiful white smile. "I guess so. It was very nice meeting you, Miss Hermione, and I hope to be seeing you again soon. If you'll excuse me, I must get back to my table and finish studying." He gently kissed her hand and walked back to the other side of the bookshelf and sat down at the table bearing a thousand smelly books.

It seemed as thought the mystery of the Book Monster had suddenly become that much more mysterious.


End file.
